The finch of Saint Mary of Lebe?a

I was perfectly aware, barely leaving the town of Panes behind and beginning the vertiginous ascent of the mythical La Hermida gorge, which runs through the picturesque path shaped by the Cares river with the patience that millennia always grant, than trying to get a report Photographic view of the interior of the church of Saint Mary of Lebe?a, an immeasurable jewel of Mozarabic architecture from the 9th century, without carrying as credentials the explicit consent of the Bishopric of Santander, was going to be the closest thing to what, in particular, metaphorical and of course, comparative I call it 'the Tom Cruise syndrome'; i.e. Mission Impossible.

In reality, and except for an inconsequential matter of wounded vanity, I wasn't overly concerned either, considering that what really mattered, possibly more than that reduced and meritorious compendium of sacred architecture, was the impressive environment in which it is located, in the heart of the Peaks of Europe, capable of seducing, by itself, those fickle accomplices of Cupid, which, deep down, I consider to be the senses. And especially when embarking on the uncertain adventure that any journey implies, these must always be fed separately and left to their own devices, as they say.

I found myself, after negotiating the dangerous curves of the gorge, as closed in on themselves as the horseshoes of a horse, comfortably seated next to the entrance portico of the church, grateful, like stone, for the tender caresses of that kind early sun. October, cordially chatting with the temple guide about the details of the place, the traces left by the anonymous brotherhood of stonemasons, who, leaving behind the Peaks of Europe, also penetrated the Castilian Plateau, descending with their art through the dangerous intricacies of the so-called Palentian Mountain and leaving behind monumental flashes of grandeur, like the run-down monasteries of Piasca and Cantamuda, when she, politely excusing herself and without losing her smile for a moment, disappeared inside, returning, after for a few seconds, with a handful of bread crumbs, which he began to offer to a little bird, a finch, which hummed, hopping around the s surface of that ancestral soil, happier than a child in front of a bag of sweets.

The guide, without stopping for a moment to attend to her tiny guest, explained to me that that finch, extroverted and somewhat cheeky, had been coming regularly for years to gobble up his ration of bread crumbs and that every spring -another reason, for which I understand the deep popular meaning that this blood alters- is accompanied by his new family, which he presents and which also participates in such a friendly agape.

A story that, deep down, reminded me of another, perhaps more poetic, of the txori bird of Puente la Reina, which every day collected water from the river Arga in its beak to clean the face of the image of the Romanesque Virgin that had in a cupboard on the bridge and which is part of those wonderful stories that are forging the legends of the prodigious Way of the Stars, giving us a lesson in beauty and humility, which takes us out, albeit temporarily, from the quagmire of stupid materialism in which we find ourselves. we develop habitually.

I am not aware, until the moment of narrating this little experience, that the lively finch has changed its habits and moves to the nearby waters of the Cares River to collect water with its beak and clean the face of the image of the Virgin of Lebe?a, who breastfeeds the Child inside the church. But I do not lose hope. Because hope, as the Way has taught me very well for so many years, is the last thing to be lost.

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